


all i do is crave

by newamsterdam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5 Times, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Modeling, Olympics, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Thirst Trap Miya Atsumu, annoyances to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: If Sakusa is looking straight at Miya, instead of the back corner where he’s supposed to be aiming, it is not of his own volition, or in any way his own fault.So it is also not his fault when his serve— with all of the power he can muster— goes on a very different trajectory than he intends.It is most definitely not his fault when his serve hits Miya fucking Atsumu straight in the side, and Miya bites down on his own tongue.Five times Sakusa didn't know what to do about how attractive he found Miya Atsumu, and one time he did.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 114
Kudos: 2011





	all i do is crave

i. 

To Sakusa’s great credit, he ignores it for as long as possible. _As long as possible_ turns out to be his first two weeks on the MSBY Jackals, which end in a small explosion of the tension he’s been holding in, but. Considering what he’s dealing with, even that much is a miracle.

The _it_ in question is Miya Atsumu. Miya Atsumu, who has spent his four years on the pro circuit perfecting not only his serves, but also the deliberate wave of his hair over his forehead. Miya Atsumu, who’s traded loose red practice shirts for the Jackals’ signature jersey, golden claw marks slashing him from one shoulder to his opposite hip. Miya Atsumu, who has the same deep-set eyes and loping accent that he did in high school, but somehow carries every aspect of himself better, more surely, with more… 

Sakusa does not let his thoughts drift any further down that line of thought. He needs all his focus on the match, right now. 

It’s not like Miya has any problems refocusing his attention when he has to, anyway. He jogs towards the net, propels himself forward on the balls of his feet, and calls out in a sing-song, “Omi-kun!” while twisting ninety degrees in midair and sending the ball sailing back towards the opposite corner of the court. 

Like following the current of a river, Sakusa is pulled along by Miya’s unexpected, but still somehow perfect, play. He runs up with all the momentum he’s built from four years of collegiate games, launches himself into the air, lets the curve of his arm crack like a whip as he makes contact with the ball. 

The whole thing happens quickly enough that the other team’s blockers are still far to Sakusa’s right, and his straight shot hits the back left corner of the court without any interference. 

Sakusa drops back down to earth and pumps his fist as his teammates call his name. When he lifts his head, he sees Miya kissing the tips of his own fingers and waving his hands outward, like his conferring a blessing upon the court. 

When Sakusa rolls his eyes, Miya turns to him and winks. 

All this is to say, Sakusa is being provoked. He has been, ever since he joined the Jackals, and even throughout highschool, when Miya would goad him with too-casual words and too-intense stares. Now he’s combined those two contradictory aspects of his personality, turned his arrogant joking and condescending nicknames and utter faith in his own gameplay into— _this_. 

“Your serve, Atsumu,” Meian calls out, bouncing the ball towards him. 

Miya takes his position, passing Sakusa on his way to the back corner. “Hey, Omi-kun,” he drawls. “Think I can get the first service ace of the day?” 

Sakusa wishes Miya wouldn’t call him Omi-kun, or Omi Omi, or any of the many other variations he’s come up with. Not just because it’s too familiar— no one outside his immediate family even calls him Kiyoomi, much less stupid nicknames— but also because Miya’s lips curl around the syllable with entirely too much glee. 

“Omi. O- _mi_. Omi-kun, are ya listening to me?” 

Like Sakusa has been saying— this is provocation of the most shameless kind. 

Miya nods his head as though in understanding. “I get it, and no worries. We’ll count the number, not who gets there first. Yer not serving for another couple rounds, but ya won’t be at a disadvantage.”

Sakusa feels his face twist with disgust before he can stop himself. “You think you can beat me?” 

Miya bounces the ball, testing it. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

“ _Atsumu_!” Meian calls out. “Sometime this year, maybe?” 

Miya finally gets ready to serve. Sakusa trains his gaze forward, but he can’t help but observe out of the corner of his eye. The deliberate number of breaths, then steps, the toss and run up, the way Miya pushes himself off the ground. 

His body bends in an arc that is nothing short of beautiful, heels almost touching his back in midair. The look of concentration on his face solidifies with a ferocity that would be intimidating if he and Sakusa weren’t playing for the same team. 

Shit, Sakusa thinks. He has gotten good. 

The other team dives to receive the serve— a jump floater that hovers just over the other side of the net before falling to earth— but the players groan and curse in frustration when the ball hits the court. 

One corner of Miya’s lips curve into a smug, crooked smirk. He turns towards Sakusa, like he _knows_ he’s being watched. He sticks out his tongue, running it over his lips. 

_Just for you_ , he mouths. He lifts his hands, extending the index finger on the left and curling his thumb and finger together into a circle on the other. _1-0_. 

Sakusa scowls and turns away, pulling his focus back to the game. He’s here for volleyball, not for Miya Atsumu. Especially when said Miya Atsumu cannot keep his fucking tongue in his mouth. 

Miya doesn’t make another service ace that round, but with the energy he puts into his serves the Jackals claim points in the next three rallies. 

Sakusa loses himself in the rhythm of the game, the squeak of sneakers against the court, the mingled smell of sweat and Salonpas that should be off-putting but isn’t, somehow. And if his gaze keeps drifting towards Miya, well. That’s not his fault, and it’s not unexpected, either. Miya’s the setter. Sakusa _has_ to look at him for cues while they play, whether he wants to or not.

And he most definitely does _not_ , for the record. The record here being his own traitorous thoughts. 

Sakusa takes position for his own serve, balancing the ball between his palms and getting used to the weight of it. He always needs a moment to recent on the ball, since every other moment of the game is spent with only split-seconds of contact, receiving and spiking. He takes a deep breath, gathering his composure. 

“Hey, Omi Omi!” Miya’s voice utterly shatters the calm, obnoxiously sing-song. “Make sure ya make an ace, so ya can catch up!” He’s got his tongue out of his mouth, again. 

Sakusa clenches his eyes shut with deliberate slowness, like he’s giving the universe time to erase Miya’s existence before he opens them again. 

His serves aren’t anywhere near as ritualized as Miya’s, but the satisfying slam of a no-touch ace comes nevertheless. As his team roars their celebrations, Sakusa turns to Miya and sticks out his own tongue. 

Take that, he thinks smugly. 

Miya shrugs, holding up both index fingers. _1-1_. 

Not for long, Sakusa thinks. He resets his position, breathing out and then in. It’s about a win for his team, he thinks, and proving himself as one of the best in the professional league, despite the longer path he took to get here. But it can also be about wiping that stupid smile off of Miya Atsumu’s face. 

He opens his eyes, tosses the ball, and takes his run-up. 

Just before the heel of his hand makes contact with the ball, he glances at Miya Atsumu.

Miya Atsumu, who instead of looking forward to the opponents on the other side of the net, is looking back at him. Miya Atsumu, who’s pushed his sweat-soaked hair even further back from his forehead. Miya Atsumu, whose golden eyes are gleaming.

Miya _fucking_ Atsumu, whose chin is half-hidden by his shoulder as he turns. Miya _fucking_ Atsumu, whose lips are a glossy red from licking over them during the match. Miya _fucking_ Atsumu, whose goddamn tongue is out of his mouth. 

If Sakusa is looking straight at Miya, instead of the back corner where he’s supposed to be aiming, it is not of his own volition, or in any way his own fault. 

So it is also not his fault when his serve— with all of the power he can muster— goes on a very different trajectory than he intends. 

It is most definitely not his fault when his serve hits Miya fucking Atsumu straight in the side, and Miya bites down on his own tongue. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Miya grouses, falling to his knees. 

Meian rushes forward to help Miya up, pausing mid-step to look back towards Sakusa. “What the hell was that, Sakusa?” He says, without much heat. They’re all used to being hit with volleyballs as a necessary hazard of the sport they all love. 

Sakusa shrugs, stepping forward to offer Miya the necessary apology.

Miya is sitting up, the corner of his mouth stained with blood from when he’d bitten his tongue. “What the fuck, Omi.”

Sakusa shrugs, again. He was provoked.

ii. 

Unfortunately, one good spike into Miya Atsumu’s side does not get this— whatever _this_ is—out of Sakusa’s system. His momentary lapse of control is more a punishment than a release. Now every time Sakusa sees Miya changing shirts in the locker room, he sees the purple bruise against Miya’s sun-warmed skin. The bruise is in a rough half-circle, the shape of a volleyball and nothing like the smaller shapes that fingertips would form. 

Sakusa doesn’t need to see the mark he’s made on Miya’s skin. He doesn’t even want to think about marking Miya’s skin. He does not, in fact, think about Miya’s skin at all.

But today he’d seen that the bruise had just about faded, and that had set his teeth grinding more than the bruise itself had, originally. Sakusa has always prided himself on his control, however, so he holds himself together through a gruelling five-set match. 

He hits three service aces to Miya’s four, and every time Miya sticks out his tongue and goads Sakusa with the count between them.

The match ends quickly enough— another Jackals win on their single-minded rise to the top of the standings. Then Sakusa is tucking his hands into the pockets of his team jacket and trying to make a quick escape to the locker room. 

No such luck— the spectators have already gathered at the edges of the court, holding out bouquets and stuffed mascots and tournament-specific volleyballs for signatures. Sakusa always knew this would be part of being a professional athlete, but he still recoils when faced with a crowd. He grabs the gold-colored Sharpie from his pocket and signs the three volleyballs nearest him. He hopes that’ll foster enough goodwill for him to make a quick exit. 

“Sakusa-kun!” A young woman steps in front of him, decked out in black and gold. She’s wearing his jersey, the excess fabric gathered and tied off with a rubber band to accentuate her trim waist. She extends her arms towards him, holding out a small box that’s tied with gold, black, yellow and green ribbons. “Thank you for your hard work! I’ve always admired your volleyball, Sakusa-kun!” 

Sakusa has no choice but to stop and stare at her, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He never accepts presents from fans.

“I made these for you,” the girl insists, and she looks so _earnest_. She must be in high school, and maybe she plays volleyball herself. She’s taken care to tie off the small package with not only MSBY’s colors, but also Itachiyama’s. 

_Don’t say anything if you’re going to be an asshole_ , Sakusa reminds himself internally. He’s a professional, and even if he treats other players with disdain, he can’t do that to a fan. 

“Sakusa-kun?” the girl asks. 

“Oh, wow,” a voice says behind him, a moment before the heavy weight of a muscled arm settles over Sakusa’s shoulders. “Did ya decorate that yerself, Fan-chan?” 

She blushes a pretty pink at the sound of Miya Atsumu’s praise. “I did! And I made the chocolates just for you, Sakusa-kun!”

“Get off me,” Sakusa mutters out of the corner of his mouth. 

Miya moves them both sideways so that they’re both facing the girl, artfully avoiding the elbow Sakusa tries to dig into his side.

“Omi-kun has this _thing_ about handmade sweets,” Miya explains to the fan, with a dramatic sigh. “He misses out on all the good stuff.”

“Oh,” the girl says, looking crestfallen. 

Fuck, Sakusa thinks. He should’ve just walked straight past her. 

“But,” Miya continues, “Maybe ya’d let me take ‘em, for ya? Then later, I can try to convince Omi-kun to have one.” 

The girl’s face has gone from a dusky pink to a startling red. Her eyes dart back and forth between them. Maybe she can’t tell how much Sakusa is trying to squirm away, given the vise grip that Miya has on him. 

“Of course, Atsumu-kun!” She holds out the box of chocolates with a bobbing bow. “Thank you so much! And for all your hard work on the court, too!” 

“Sure thing.” Miya winks at her. “I can always count on our MSBY fans to keep the court quiet when I need it. Thanks to you, too.”

“Not at all,” the girl says. 

So much for being his fan, Sakusa thinks. Three seconds, and she’s converting to a Miya Atsumu follower. 

The girl leans in, conspiratory. “I love every point you make, but when you set to Sakusa-kun, those are always the best.”

Miya lets out a full-bodied laugh, pulls Sakusa closer against his side. He’s still warm from the hours on the court, his body a firm line against Sakusa’s. 

“Just between ya and me,” he whispers, “those are my favorite, too.”

This is insufferable. Sakusa grabs Miya’s hand where it’s hanging off his own shoulder, and squeezes it in a crushing grip. Miya lets out a yelp, and finally pulls away. 

“We need to shower,” Sakusa mutters, not quite an excuse to the fan. Thankfully, she takes it as such, nodding and thanking them for their time. 

An hour later, both Miya and Sakusa are freshly showered and in one of the hotel rooms the Jackals are packed into for the night. Miya is picky about his space in ways that are entirely contrary to Sakusa’s particularities, but the rest of the team has long since decided they’re both too fussy to deal with. So despite Sakusa’s best efforts, they end up in the same rooms more often than not.

Miya smacks his lips together as he goes through the small pile of fan presents at the foot of his bed. Resting on top is the box of chocolates, which he reaches for first. 

“Man, Omi-kun, yer fans really go all out,” he whines, pulling the ribbons off the package.

Sakusa is trying to read a book, but he doesn’t want to associate any of the narrative with discordant interruptions of Miya’s voice. He sighs and sets the book aside, wondering if it’s worth escaping his clean, warm blankets to retrieve his headphones. 

“I’m not joking,” Miya continues, because he’s clinically incapable of shutting his mouth. His next words are muffled as he presses a spherical truffle into his mouth. “This is amazing. There’s like, liquid chocolate inside!”

Sakusa does appreciate his fans’ efforts, though he can’t say he particularly understands why they’d be his fans over someone like Meian, or Wakatoshi-kun, or even Bokuto. But that appreciation does not extend to putting handmade, never-individually-wrapped pieces of food into his own body. There are too many variables at play, and if he thinks about all the cleanliness risks involved, his head will explode. 

“Yer such a bad sport,” Miya continues, biting into another two truffles. “Oh, _Omi_.” 

He groans the last syllable, the syllable that Sakusa has involuntarily come to recognize as his own name, and the sound is obscene. Sakusa glances up, heat spreading out across his cheeks and down his neck. 

“This is so good,” Miya says, utterly oblivious to what he’s doing. “An’ I’m not dead yet, so ya can probably try one.”

“No,” Sakusa starts to say. 

Miya is already on his feet— his legs are bare, aside from the cotton shorts he wears to sleep in, and his calves are tanned and muscled and _strong_. His arms are lined elegantly with muscle, visible because he’s a heathen who wears ridiculous tank tops with arm holes that reach practically down to his waist. Sakusa is determined not to look at the side view of Miya’s abs and pecs that is surely visible. 

“C’mon,” Miya says, suddenly right beside Sakusa’s bed. “Try one, Omi-kun.”

“Stay on your side of the room,” Sakusa hisses, reaching for his book, thinking to use it as a shield, a weapon, or both. 

Miya chuckles. It isn’t the laugh he has for fans and cameras— high-pitched and false, with a hint of mockery that no one but Sakusa picks up on. It also isn’t the way he laughs on the court— triumphant and unrestrained. No, this laugh is low in his throat, perhaps colored by the fatigue that sets in after a match. But it’s rich, and close in tone to the groan he’d let out just moments before—

“Fuck,” Sakusa says aloud. 

Miya arches a brow at him. 

“Shut up—” 

Miya leans forward, a chocolate truffle poised between his thumb and index finger. Before Sakusa can think to shut his mouth, Miya presses the truffle between his lips, poking it in further to Sakusa’s mouth with the tip of his finger. 

_I’ll kill you_ , Sakusa thinks, just as the chocolate starts to melt in his mouth. His tongue works without his express permission, licking the molten chocolate that fills his mouth. It’s plum-flavored, the smell and taste of the fruit filling his senses. Sakusa chases it, licking over his own teeth, over the tips of Miya Atsumu’s fingers. 

....Sakusa licks over the tips of Miya Atsumu’s fingers, which are in his _goddamn fucking mouth_. 

His brain short-circuits. He’s seen these hands from so many angles, admired what they can do on the court, swatted them away when they come too close. But now, he’s touching them, not with bare hands, but with his _tongue_. 

Sakusa snaps his jaw shut without thinking, his teeth coming down hard against Miya’s fingers. 

Miya yelps and pulls his hand free, shaking it wildly. “What the _fuck_ , Omi-kun!” He hops from one foot to the other, like that’ll distract him from the pain. “I just wanted ya to enjoy some chocolate, ya don’t have to _bite my fucking hand off_!” 

“You put your fucking hand in my face,” Sakusa says with a patient composure he’s barely holding onto. He shoves his bed covers back and pushes Miya out of the way. “I told you to stay on your side of the room.”

“Come _on_ ,” Miya whines. He presses his fingers against his own lips, sucking on them to ease the pain. Sakusa is sure that his entire face is on fire, a furious red that Miya will see and know and _recognize_. “The girl made ya plum chocolates, ya jerk! Ya had to at least try ‘em!” 

“I have to brush my teeth again,” Sakusa says, glancing at Miya only out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe shower again,” he adds, for good measure.

“Fuck off.” Miya scowls, even as he laughs. “I was wrong, before. Yer not a sea urchin, yer a piranha!” 

Sakusa shoves his way into the bathroom, slamming the door and turning on the faucet immediately so that Miya won’t hear his labored breathing. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, surprised to find that his face is only slightly flushed. Miya might not have even noticed. There’s the stain of chocolate on one corner of his mouth, but when Sakusa licks his lips, he imagines the salty tang is Miya’s skin, and not the chocolate at all. 

iii. 

When the offseason finally arrives, Sakusa gets a brief reprieve from seeing Miya nearly every day. He takes a trip back to Tokyo to visit his parents, books himself a full spa treatment at the most reputable place in the city, and tries his best to put Miya Atsumu from his mind. 

He’s having mixed success, until the Black Jackals’ endorsement agent calls him and requests he get back to Osaka. For a moment, Sakusa has the brief hope that the agent has finally gotten him a deal with Kao Magiclean Plus. But his hope quickly curls into despair. 

“Underwear,” he says into the phone, the word falling from his lips like a bird shot out of the sky.

“Don’t worry, Sakusa-kun,” the agent assures him. “The Beams team knows all about your preferences! It’ll be an underwear ad, but they don’t expect you to be nude, or even shirtless.”

“And that advertises underwear how?” Sakusa wonders aloud. 

“Well, there’ll be two of you,” the agent continues, sounding well pleased with himself. “I believe they said it was the contrast they were after!”

“Two of us,” Sakusa repeats dumbly. 

“Yes,” the agent chirps. “You and Miya-kun!”

He’s in hell, Sakusa thinks a few days later, when he arrives on set for the photoshoot. He’s in hell, or else it really _is_ empty, because Miya Atsumu is here on earth. 

He’s wearing black boxer-briefs, the thick elastic waistband printed with BEAMS across it in red letters. The t-shirt is plain black, sleeves down to his elbows. The stylist fits him with a series of gold bracelets around one wrist, and a glimmering gold earring clipped to the shell of his ear. His hair is moused, the curls more defined and pushed all to one side. 

“There,” the stylist declares. “You’re ready, and looking very handsome, if I do say so myself, Sakusa-kun.”

He’s not sure that he wants to thank her, so he nods as he steps onto the set. Because this is hell, Miya hasn’t made an appearance yet, so Sakusa sits on the leather chaise that’s been set out on set and waits. He stares down at his hands, storing every bit of resolve he can before—

“Huh, ya actually showed. I figured ya’d find a way out of this, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa glances up and says acidly, “It’s part of the job.”

“True,” Miya says, shrugging. “Ya are a professional, aren’t ya?” 

Miya Atsumu is shirtless. Miya Atsumu is, in fact, wearing nothing but a pair of BEAMS briefs. The briefs are red with a white pattern, the white elastic waistband stark against Miya’s tanned skin. He’s wearing a gold anklet, and thin chain around his neck that sits against his collarbones. His hair is made fluffy as a cloud, the makeup minimal but picking up the red tone of his lips. 

Sakusa moves to lick his own lips, before he remembers the lipcolor he’s also wearing. He can’t drag this out by mussing his makeup. 

“Ah, Miya-kun, Sakusa-kun!” The photographer walks towards them, clapping his hands together. He eyes them both with approval. “I work with a lot of models, but I was telling my colleagues that if you’re doing underwear, athletes are always best! You can tell your bodies came from hard work!”

Sakusa may be blunt, but he’s never been open. He does not want this dweller of the fashion world commenting on him, at all, and not on Miya, either. 

But Miya just laughs. “Well, of course. Ya came to the right place.”

The photographer and set assistants position them. Sakusa stands behind the chaise, while Miya lies horizontally across it. Against the black leather, Miya’s tanned legs and the red of the underwear stand out starkly. The photographer gestures Sakusa closer, has him lean over the chaise and place one hand on the edge of the seat, so that he’s caging Miya in.

“Yes, just like that,” the photographer says. He moves around them like a hummingbird, hovering in place for long enough to take a series of rapid-fire shots from each angle. “Perfect.” 

The set assistants come forward again, and Sakusa has to let himself be repositioned. They sit him on one end of the chaise, then motion for Miya to lie back down.

“Excuse me,” Sakusa hisses, not caring to keep his voice polite.

“Yes?” One of the set assistants replies from where she’s parting individual strands of Miya’s hair with a comb.

“Where exactly are you putting him.” Sakusa doesn’t dare give the words more inflection. 

“Oh, Miya-san will put his head here,” the assistant says, motioning to Sakusa’s thighs— half bare— and the general space of his lap. 

“Oh,” Sakusa says, because he really has no other response. Miya’s head is going to be on his lap. While he’s wearing nothing but underwear. Wonderful. Fantastic. Day of his dreams.

“I don’t bite, Omi-kun,” Miya says, laying back down. It’s a moot point, since he’s facing upwards. Of course, he doesn’t have any misgivings at all.

“Sakusa-kun, you can put your hand in his hair,” the photographer says. 

Wonderful. Fantastic. Day of his _fucking_ dreams. Sakusa slips his fingers against Miya’s bottle blond locks, which aren’t as soft as they appear because of the product required to keep them perfect for the shoot. Miya is looking up at him, eyes wide and burning amber like lamplight. 

On instinct, Sakusa curls his hand and tightens his grip. 

Miya chokes as his head is pulled upwards. “Ow, _fuck_ , Omi! Lighten up, would ya?”

“Relax your faces!” The photographer calls out, before he becomes a blur of motion and camera flashes, again. 

“Yer being pretty quiet,” Miya mentions, as the staff come forward again to rearrange the set. His head is still resting against Sakusa’s thigh. 

“No one talks as much as you do,” Sakusa informs him. 

Miya huffs a laugh. “Well, _yeah_. But I was talking about you— yer not talking as much as ya usually do, to me.”

Sakusa opens his mouth to say that he never talks to Miya unless he absolutely has to, but that’s not true, is it? Miya goads him so often that Sakusa ends up retorting more often than not. 

“You want me to talk to you?” Sakusa says.

“I’m asking, aren’t I? Anyway, otherwise all I’m gonna think about is the fact that your legs are _cold_ , Omi-kun.”

His bare thigh is resting against the back of Miya’s neck. They’re making more skin-to-skin contact than they ever have before, but as long as neither of them were acknowledging it, it did not have to be quite real. 

“Yeah, and your undercut is going to irritate my skin. What’s your point?” 

Miya moves as though to shrug, which jostles them and makes the points of contact even harder to ignore. “Can ya imagine doing this with Bokkun?”

Sakusa tries, but the idea of holding Bokuto’s head in his lap is so ludicrous that his mind can’t even pull the image together. Far easier is this moment, now, with Miya’s product-tacky hair between his fingers, and his head against Sakusa’s thigh, and his long legs stretched out over the rest of the chaise. 

“Ha!” Miya says, triumphant. “That was a smile, wasn’t it, Omi-kun? I knew I had to get ya when ya weren’t wearing a mask.”

“It wasn’t a smile,” Sakusa says. 

“Nah, it was,” Miya insists.

“You’re looking at me upside-down. It was definitely a frown.” 

Miya sticks his tongue out, though it’s hard to direct the expression at Sakusa given their current positions. 

“Alright, let’s move to something else,” the photographer says, interrupting.

_Something else_ turns out to be the deepest circle of hell yet. 

Miya is lying on his back on the chaise, and Sakusa is gratefully freed from having Miya’s head on his lap. However, his relief is short lived. Instead of sitting on the chaise, he is now kneeling across it— hands and knees against the smooth leather, and Miya lying in the cage of Sakusa’s long, pale limbs.

Sakusa tries to imagine a worse position, but can’t come up with any. His torso and Miya’s have just a handspan between them, and as for their hips… 

One wrong move, one loosened breath, and Sakusa’s core strength won’t be able to save him. If he lets his hips drop even an inch, they’ll meet Miya’s, and then there’ll be no hiding exactly how he’s feeling— how Miya _makes_ him feel, and how his body reacts without Sakusa’s express permission. 

“Ya doing okay, Omi Omi?” Miya asks, looking up at him. 

Sakusa glances away from Miya’s face, but everywhere he turns there’s just more of Miya’s body. The torso that had worn a bruise Sakusa caused for weeks. The dips and ridges of his abs, sprayed with a layer of mist to make them gleam under the camera’s flash. The gentle trail of dark hair that leads to the BEAMS waistband, the tell-tale sign that his blond locks are as fake as any kindness he shows to others.

Sakusa blinks at Miya. His curls shift, tickling over Miya’s forehead. “No worse than planks,” he mutters.

Miya’s lips twist into a crooked smile. “And no better, either?” 

Sakusa can’t shrug, because even that much movement might give him away. “For you, maybe,” he responds instead.

Miya pulls his chin up, stretching his neck into a long, glorious line. “Well, yeah. I’m just lying here. Easy enough.” 

Maybe it’s because they can’t look anywhere other than at each other’s bodies, but somehow they haven’t broken eye contact for the last few minutes. Sakusa knows Miya Osamu has gray eyes, and Miya Atsumu’s are gold. He isn’t quite sure if either color is natural, or if both are as manufactured as Atsumu’s hair. He finds he doesn’t care if the color is authentic; it’s entrancing either way. 

Miya lets out a nervous laugh, blinking deliberately and repeatedly. “Sheesh, Omi-kun. Stop staring, or I’m gonna think…”

Sakusa grinds his teeth. He’s not staring, he just has nowhere else to look! But maybe the prolonged eye contact has hypnotized him, because he says, stupidly, “You’re going to think what, exactly?”

Miya parts his lips, mouth forming an O. “Well…”

“Don’t move,” the photographer orders. The _click-click-click_ of the shutter is the only sound in that moment, with both Sakusa and Miya straining to keep from blinking, and inevitably staring at each other with more intensity than either of them probably intends. 

The photographer steps back with a pleased smile. “Oh, excellent.”

Sakusa lets out a breath, which is a mistake. His core relaxes, his hips flex, and— _oh_. Oh, _no_. 

He’s hard. He knows he’s been hard for a lot of this but— 

Miya’s hard, too. And now their hips are touching, and neither of them can hide from the other—

“Water, Sakusa-san?” One of the set assistants appears beside him with a tray of paper cups.

“He doesn’t like paper cups,” Miya says automatically, “Or anything open to the air. Ya need to get a sealed bottle—” 

He can’t stand it. He can’t stand how Miya looks, how unaffected his voice is, how he can pretend that their cocks aren’t _touching_ with only the benefit of thin designer briefs between them. He can’t stand that despite all of this, he’s saying something for Sakusa’s benefit.

Sakusa’s arm shoots out, hitting the bottom of the tray of water. He flicks his wrist, and the entire tray upends. Plastic cups of water go flying, most of them landing on Sakusa and Miya. They’re both soaked within the span of a few seconds. 

“Sakusa-san!” the assistant cries out, stepping back and looking helplessly at the mess in front of her.

Sakusa jumps to his feet, off the chaise and away from Miya. “Muscle spasm,” he says shortly. 

“Ugh,” Miya whines, pushing his now-wet hair back from his forehead. “What is _with_ you, Omi-kun?”

_You_ , Sakusa screams within the privacy of his own thoughts. _Always you, Miya Atsumu_.

iv. 

They don’t talk about it. When the ad campaign debuts a few weeks later, Sakusa decidedly ignores the way the magazines are passed around the Black Jackals’ locker room, to the hoots and applause and whistles of their teammates. He can’t bring himself to look too closely at the pictures, afraid of what he’ll see in his own eyes, panicked that Miya will see it and recognize it, too. 

“ _Honestly, I think you’re just wasting opportunities, Sakusa_ ,” Komori says over the phone. “ _You could just ask him out_.”

Sakusa’s reaction to that idea is a small combustion in the pit of his stomach. “What makes you think I _want_ to go out with him?”

Komori sighs. “ _Maybe the fact that he’s all you talk about, lately? Or how whenever you talk about being mad at him, it’s because he did something you thought was hot?_ ”

Sakusa clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I get mad at _everything_ he does, not because he’s hot, but because he’s insufferable.”

“ _And because you think he’s hot_ ,” Komori suggests. 

“Don’t act like you know everything,” Sakusa mutters.

“ _I thought you called me for advice?_ ” Komori’s voice is too earnest, too guileless. “ _I’m just saying, unless you’re planning on transferring teams anytime soon, you’re going to be around Atsumu-kun whether you like it or not. Why not do something about it?_ ”

“It’d be easier to just kill him and put us both out of our misery,” Sakusa says.

“ _Well get a move on, then! Either way, I don’t want to hear more about this if you’re going to keep refusing to do anything about it!_ ” 

Komori’s right, as Komori often is. But that doesn’t mean Sakusa has to admit it. 

He says a quick goodbye and tucks his phone into its dust-shield cover before putting it back in his pocket. 

This thing between him and Miya is unsustainable. At least, it is for Sakusa. Miya, despite his physical reaction during the photoshoot, has always seemed utterly unbothered. He approaches everything with teasing condescension, including flirting. If Sakusa ever responded to Miya’s teasing, what would the result be?

A part of Sakusa wants to believe that the result would be him pinning Miya against a wall and finally kissing the smug smirk off his infuriatingly handsome face. But other possibilities wander into his thoughts— rejection, embarrassment, absence. 

It’s foolish, isn’t it? Sakusa Kiyoomi has never done things half-way. Every goal he sets his sights on, he climbs towards with steady and inevitable progress. But there’s nothing steady, nothing stable about Miya Atsumu. He’s not a mountain to be submitted; he’s a bomb ready to go off at any moment. 

Sakusa shakes his head, pushing the thoughts as far as he can. He’s about to head into the gym for some private serve practice, and hopefully that will take up enough of his attention that he won’t have any to spare for Miya Atsumu.

He’s at his locker, shedding his jacket and tucking his bag inside. He pulls off his long-sleeved shirt and reaches for a practice T-shirt.

He hears the tell-tale creak of a shower door opening, a little puff of steam escaping into the locker room. 

He normally doesn’t care who else is in the locker room or the showers when he gets here. But usually, when the whole team is around, there’s so much noise and so many smells and so much action that Sakusa can blissfully tune it all out and go through his own routines.

Now, there are no such distractions. And Miya Atsumu, clad only in a plain white towel around his hips and shower slippers, has just walked into the locker room. The locker room that is empty, save for the two of them. 

“Huh, Omi,” Miya shakes his head. “Should’ve known it was you, booking practice time after me.”

Sakusa is only halfway into his practice shirt. The locker room is small, and the walls have decided to press in even closer. He can smell Miya’s soap— some mix of chamomile, citrus, and turmeric. 

He likes those scents. Organic, cleansing, _clean_.

Miya tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowing. “Whatcha smiling for?”

Sakusa hadn’t realized he was smiling. He corrects now, pressing his lips together.

Miya rolls his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Clam up! Like, a literal clam!” 

“What is with you and comparing me to sea creatures?” The question comes out flat, hiding Sakusa’s spike of frustration. How do they always end up talking about such nonsense? 

“It’s yer fault,” Miya accuses. “I just want to talk to ya, and it’s like pulling teeth.”

There are droplets of water running down Miya’s neck, his shoulders, the panes of his pecs and abs. He’s holding the towel closed with one hand, but it sits low enough on his hips to give Sakusa a view of the diagonal lines that form the V of his hips, leading to…

Would he taste like chamomile? Like orange and turmeric? 

Miya snaps twice in front of Sakusa’s face. “Hey, pay attention when I’m talking!”

“Why?” Sakusa wonders. “Whenever I tune back in, you’ll _still_ be talking.” 

Miya’s pretty features all pull together in a grimace. “Shut the fuck up! Yer a real piece of work, ya know that?”

His voice should be annoying. But whenever it rises, Sakusa thinks that it would be interesting— fun, even— to see what Miya sounds like when he’s not in control of himself, when he’s not planning every word to poke and taunt and goad. 

“You can’t say that to me,” Sakusa says pointedly.

“Sure I can,” Miya mutters with a shake of his head. “Everyone says I’m the asshole, sure. But I _know_ ya, Omi. Ya can’t hide from me that yer a jerk, too.”

It’s something of a relief, that Miya doesn’t expect him to be anything other than what he is. Miya, who knows he has trouble accepting gifts from fans. Miya, who navigates crowds so Sakusa doesn’t have to. Miya, who leaves the sealed bottles of water in hotel rooms for him. Miya, who holds his gaze and gives as good as he gets, and never, ever stops talking. 

“So what if I am?” Sakusa mutters. He’s never tried to be anything other than what he is, after all.

Miya shakes his head, muttering under his breath like he’s chiding himself. It’s a strange image, when Sakusa has always seen Miya as entirely without shame or even an ounce of self-reflection.

“Sometimes I’d wish ya’d be…” Miya starts to say. 

Sakusa can’t hear the rest of what he says, it’s too soft. And Miya is _never_ soft, not in words or actions or anything. 

Sakusa is moving before he fully decides to. There’s a locker room bench between them, but it’s still easy for Sakusa to reach over and grab Miya by the— clean, rosy, soap-smelling— arms. 

“What,” Sakusa demands.

Miya licks his lips, looks up at Sakusa with a reckless expression. “A little more like this, actually.”

Sakusa is holding onto Miya’s bare skin. He’s no more than a handspan away from him. They’re alone in the locker room, both of them in compromising states of undress.

Miya is making no move to get away from him. He’s as strong as any professional athlete has to be— he could’ve pulled away a minute ago. He could’ve bypassed Sakusa entirely and gone to get dressed. He could’ve left the locker room without saying a single thing to him. 

But he’s here, perfectly content with Sakusa’s hands on him, grinning with his tongue between his lips like he’s just secured some great victory. 

“What do you want,” Sakusa says through clenched teeth. He knows he’s holding on too hard, wonders if his fingers will leave bruises against Miya’s skin. 

“Sometimes yer like a brick wall, Omi,” Miya is saying. “No reaction, no matter what I do. Ya know how annoying that is?”

“About as annoying as you are?” Sakusa suggests. 

A more genuine smile ghosts across Miya’s face. “Something like that, yeah.”

They’re staring at each other, neither daring to make a move. Sakusa could pull Miya closer, could feel his breaths if he wanted to. Could feel a lot more, if he dared to. 

“Yer doing it again,” Miya says, squirming. “The brick wall thing.”

“You’re doing it again,” Sakusa parrots back at him. “The not shutting up thing.”

Miya pretends to consider this, face scrunching up in thought. “Ya know, there’s a way ya could shut me up.”

That’s it. There’s no ambiguity left, no space for retreat. Just Miya Atsumu, licking over his reddened lips, while the heat of his skin radiates against Sakusa’s palms. 

_Fuck it_ , Sakusa thinks. He’s only human.

He tugs Miya forward, pressing their lips together with force and without finesse. Miya has no leverage, his arms trapped in Sakusa’s grip, but the appreciative sound he makes is more than consent. He traces his infuriating tongue across the seam of Sakusa’s lips.

“Mm,” he says, eyes closed, “ _Omi_.”

Sakusa’s senses are overwhelmed by the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him. It’s as though every one of his cells is hypercharged, straining to be as close to Miya as they possibly can be. For a fleeting instant, he’s hyper aware of everything. Then Miya pushes his tongue between Sakusa’s lips, and all other thoughts leave him.

He doesn’t know how long he’s wanted it, how much he’s built this moment up in his fantasies. But it doesn’t matter, because the sensation is so _good_ , just as affecting as Miya always is, and somehow sweeter because, as promised, Miya can no longer keep talking.

Sakusa pushes them forward, Miya’s back bending in an arc shape to accommodate. 

It’s good, it’s so good, and it’s— a lot. Almost too much.

Sakusa pulls back, sees a shiny string of saliva going from his bottom lip to Miya’s.

Miya huffs out a warm breath. “Wow, Omi, I—”

It really is too much. Sakusa doesn’t know what to do with himself. Abruptly, he drops his grip on Miya’s arms, clenches his own hands at his sides. There are too many things to focus on— the scent of citrus and chamomile, the way Miya’s white towel had felt against his knees, the glimmer of his own saliva on Miya’s lips. 

For all his composure, Sakusa has always gotten overwhelmed easily. But he’s never felt panic rise this quickly, like a wave looming over the shore before immediately crashing down against the sand. 

“Omi?” Miya asks. “Look, I know I’m amazing, but ya can breath, y’know—”

Sakusa gives him a push back, trying to make space around him. He hadn’t meant to do that. He absolutely had not meant to do that. 

“Hey,” Miya is saying, softer now. “Are ya okay—”

Sakusa blindly reaches for his shirt, and his bag. He slams his locker door shut. 

“Omi!” Miya’s voice is agitated, and maybe a little panicked, too. “Hey, hold on a second—”

Sakusa doesn’t trust himself to respond. Instead, he turns on his heel and runs from the locker room as quickly as he can. 

It’s not his proudest moment.

v. 

Sakusa has never been one to do things halfway. The fact that he has kissed Miya Atsumu but taken things no further grates at him, like a rock stuck in his shoe, or a cut on his gum that he can’t stop running his tongue over. 

Solace comes, as usual, from volleyball. On the court, Miya is just the setter who can push Sakusa past his limits and bring out the best in him. The two of them play for the Black Jackals, and then move up together to Japan’s Olympic team. They play on an international stage, and they win.

“You know the rest of us were there too, right?” Komori asks. He’s sitting next to Sakusa at their table in the bar, hand curled around a sweating bottle of beer. “Sure, you were the first to get one of Oikawa’s nasty serves, but you couldn’t have done it alone.”

Sakusa huffs, taking a sip of his own drink— a melon soda. He’s never been much for alcohol. “I know that.”

His gaze flicks over to the other side of the bar, where Miya is sitting with Hinata, Bokuto, Aran and Hoshiumi. There are others that Sakusa doesn’t know by more than reputation— players from Brazil, Argentina, Italy, Poland. 

“We could go sit with them,” Komori suggests.

“Why,” Sakusa starts to say, but Komori is already on his feet.

“Because you want to.” Komori rolls his eyes, pulling Sakusa up.

As soon as they make their way over, Hinata waves some of the others away to make space for them. “Komori-san! Omi-san! We were wondering where you were!” 

Some of their more straightlaced teammates— Hyazukawa and Ushijima and Kageyama— retreated earlier to get to bed. Sakusa wonders why he hadn’t joined them. 

“What’re you all talking about?” Komori asks, pulling up a stool. 

“Who’s yer dream lay in the village,” Miya supplies, eyes roving over all those present. 

Komori coughs. “What was that?”

“Oh, you know.” Hinata laughs. “If you could pick any athlete in the Olympic Village to spend the night with, who would it be? It’s just a fun game, we’re not trying to embarrass anyone!”

“This is good, though,” Bokuto says. “All of us took turns already! So, Omi Omi, who would yours be?”

Sakusa will admit, within the privacy of his own mind and soul, that he enjoys his teammates’ company. Most of them accept his idiosyncrasies without complaint, and though they are generally louder and more social than he chooses to be they’re… good guys, for the most part. But he absolutely does not want to tell them that his _Dream Lay_ is sitting two stools down from him at the bar. 

When Sakusa goes a moment without responding, Komori supplies, “Sakusa likes blond hair.”

If he was close enough, Sakusa would elbow— or punch— his cousin in the ribs. As it is, he can only send him his dirtiest glare. 

“Oho!” Hinata crows, clapping his hairs. “Anyone in particular, Omi-san?”

“Blond, huh,” Bokuto says thoughtfully, “Maybe from France, or America? We are talking volleyball, right?”

“I dunno,” Hinata says, “Have you seen some of the soccer players? And the swimmers?”

“There’s a lot of different athletes,” Hoshiumi puts in.

“Yeah,” Komori says with a laugh, “But Sakusa has only ever cared about volleyball.”

“I’m right here,” Sakusa grits out. 

Komori hiccups, giving Sakusa a guilty look. He has had more than a few beers, and maybe Sakusa should be more forgiving. 

Being the only sober person in a group rarely inclines him towards forgiveness. 

He gets to his feet, brushing past his teammates. 

“Sakusa, c’mon,” Komori calls after him. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”

He knows that, but he doesn’t turn back. “I’m getting another drink,” he mutters, not really caring if they hear him or not. 

The bar is crowded with other Olympians, and making it up to order while also keeping his distance from as many bodies as he can takes far longer than it should. By the time he heads back to the others clutching an umeshu sawa, the group has dispersed. 

They’re all drunk, high on their victories, and friends with countless athletes in the international community. It makes sense that they’re all being pulled in different directions without thinking too much about it. Sakusa knows he can’t complain about being abandoned when he was the one to walk away first.

He stops in surprise, seeing a familiar figure leaned against the wall, clutching a nearly empty bottle in one hand. 

“Omi Omi,” Miya singsongs. “I never thought ya’d be a partier.”

Sakusa inhales deeply before pulling up a stool beside Miya. “I’m not.”

Miya wags a finger at him. “Yer still here, aren’t ya? Ya could be fast asleep in those little dorm twin beds they set up for us.”

“It’s stupid,” Sakusa mutters, thinking of the Olympic Village’s accommodations. “I have family in Tokyo. I don’t need to stay here.”

Miya huffs a laugh, limbs loose with alcohol and a stupid, crooked smile on his lips. “Don’t ya want the _experience_? Legends are made in the Olympic Village, and I’m not talking about the medals.”

“Don’t be crass,” Sakusa mutters, taking a sip of his drink.

Miya leans towards him, eyeing his glass suspiciously. “Are ya _drinking_? I’ve never seen ya drink before.”

Sakusa allows himself a wry smile. “Everyone’s telling me the occasion calls for it.” 

Miya slaps an exasperated hand against his face. “Oh, c’mon.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t even trying to get ya to smile, that time! It’s like yer just giving them away, now!” 

Sakusa blinks. Miya pokes fun at his smiles— or lack thereof— often enough, but Sakusa never thought he was thinking too hard about them. Self-conscious, Sakusa presses his lips together. 

“No, no, don’t do that,” Miya whines. He scoots his stool forward, close as he can to Sakusa. He reaches out and pokes Sakusa in one cheek. “I almost saw a dimple.”

The tip of Miya’s finger is warm— all of him is probably warm, given the rosy flush across his face. Sakusa bites down on his tongue, forcing himself to focus. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” Miya says, exasperated. His motions are sloppy, loose and unrefined in a way he never is. He smacks the palm of his hand against Sakusa’s cheek. “It’s _cute_ , Omi-kun. I’m telling ya that yer cute.”

Sakusa is 192 centimeters tall, built of muscle and long, flexible limbs. He wears a scowl even when he’s also wearing a mask. The last word most would use to describe him is _cute_.

“You’re drunk.” Sakusa lets out a long-suffering sigh. Really, he has been suffering since the day he met Miya Atsumu.

Miya attempts to blow a raspberry at him, but just ends up spitting in Sakusa’s general direction. Sakusa, to his great credit, does not flinch. At least all the alcohol Miya’s been drinking will have killed off the worst bacteria in his mouth.

Miya sits back, arms crossed over his chest and pouting. “Ya really like blonds, then?”

Sakusa blinks, fire spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “You shouldn’t pay attention to Komori,” he decides to say.

Miya shakes his head. “Why, so I wait another hundred years for ya to give me a straight answer?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. 

“Who is it, then? There’s that tall guy on the American team… half of Poland is blond… and some of the Brazilians that were getting cozy with Shouyou…”

Miya is muttering to himself, ticking off options on his fingers. 

Once upon a time, those fingers had been in Sakusa’s mouth. 

“I’m not into blonds,” Sakusa says, finally.

Miya looks up, blinking rapidly. “Huh?”

He’s been sipping at his umeshu the entire time, and maybe the alcohol is starting to hit him. Because aside from the warmth running through his veins, he doesn’t feel the way he usually does around Miya— the overwhelming combination of painfully aroused and unbearably annoyed and panic rising over another, softer feeling. 

He leans forward, runs his fingers through Miya’s soft hair. “But there’s this guy, and I might have a thing for the way he bleaches his hair.”

It’s as though Miya has been waiting for this moment, because he leans into the touch, and while Sakusa is distracted he edges forward until he’s practically in Sakusa’s lap. 

“Omi,” he whispers, voice hot and sour with alcohol, “ _I_ bleach my hair.”

Sakusa runs his hand from the top of Miya’s head down to the base of his neck, enjoying the fuzz of dark hair there. “I’m aware.”

Miya sighs mournfully, tucking his face against Sakusa’s neck. “But yer never gonna sleep with me, are ya?”

Sakusa jolts in his seat, fingers curling against Miya’s neck. 

“I keep trying with you, ya know? For years, now. And ya just get me all hot and walk away.” Miya sighs again, his tongue leaving small wet licks against Sakusa’s neck.

It should be disgusting. They’re in a bar, amongst a hundred other sweaty, dirty athletes. Sakusa doesn’t even want to think about what’s going on in the bathrooms, or back at the Village dorms. 

And yet— this is Miya Atsumu. And Sakusa doesn’t want to pull away.

“What are you doing here by yourself, anyway,” Sakusa mutters. 

Miya huffs. “Waiting for ya, obviously. Everyone else has friends from Brazil and Italy and Russia. But it’s me and you, isn’t it? Has been, for awhile now.”

Both Miya and Sakusa have spent their entire professional careers on the Black Jackals. Sakusa has never once thought about leaving the team, or leaving Japan. He doesn’t need to, not when the person who’s always dragging the best out of him has been right beside him all along. 

“Russians and Brazilians wouldn’t put up with your shit,” Sakusa says. 

Miya laughs, and his breath is so _warm_ , and his voice is rough with his drunkenness. “Or yours, Mr. Individually Wrapped Snacks.”

Sakusa grumbles under his breath, but Miya isn’t deterred. 

“Hey, Omi-kun,” Miya says, turning his face upwards. His eyes are liquid-dark and gleaming. 

“What.”

“What would ya say if I invited ya back to my room?”

Sakusa should say, _you’re drunk and this is a bad idea_. He should say, _I don’t think I’ll be able to stop, once I get my hands on you_. He should say, _I’ve never been less in control than when you’re in front of me, looking the way you do, and it scares me_.

Instead, he takes Miya’s chin in his hand and pulls him up, meeting Miya’s lips with his own. Miya tastes like expensive beer, like two weeks spent in the most rigorous competition of their lives, like salt and sweat— just like he does, every time.

It takes more coordination than Sakusa would like for the two of them to stumble back towards the Village dorms. Miya has his arm thrown over Sakusa’s shoulder, and keeps threatening to slip down and crash to the floor. Sakusa support’s Miya’s not inconsiderable weight, nudging his feet forward and balancing them like they’re in the world’s most bizarre three-legged race.

Thankfully, nothing about their drunken tango stands out. This is the Olympic Village, and this close to Closing Ceremonies, not many people have to worry about being in peak condition in the morning. That means twosomes and moresomes are all stumbling around for dark corners and less-than-comfortable beds, music blaring out of windows and impromptu dances takes up hallways and outdoor spaces. They’re all in their prime, high off the energy of achieving so many dreams. For once, Sakusa doesn’t begrudge anyone their shamelessness. 

Finally, they make it back to Miya’s room. They don’t have enough hands or coordination to press the keycard in the right place, and finally Miya just starts kicking at the door in the hopes that it will open.

“Can you just lean against the wall for a moment,” Sakusa hisses. “Then I can open the door.”

Miya shakes his head vigorously, arms wrapped around Sakusa like a starfish. “Fuck no. The second I let go of ya, yer gonna disappear.” 

Maybe he deserves that comment, but still. If Miya wants Sakusa’s dick anywhere near him, he needs to, “ _Let go_.”

Miya shivers at the sound of Sakusa’s voice, pulls away to lean against the wall and immediately slumps down to land against the ground. “Fuck.”

Sakusa does not have time to process all of that just now. Instead, he grabs Miya’s keycard out of his hand and smacks it against the sensor. The light finally turns green, and with a chime the door unlocks. Sakusa turns the handle and opens the door, intending to prop it open before getting Miya inside, but—

Miya has a roommate. Miya has a roommate with a furious shock of orange hair, and said roommate is currently on top of another, dark-haired figure, and the dark-haired one is letting out _obscene_ noises while Miya’s roommate is murmuring, _Yeah, yeah, just like that— been waiting so long_ —

Sakusa takes two steps back, shuts the door, and turns to Miya with a vividly red face. 

“You didn’t think to clear out your room before inviting me back here?”

“Huh?” Miya’s face scrunches in confusion, before he barks out a laugh. “Fuck, _Shouyou_. I shoulda known.”

“Yes,” Sakusa says sternly, “You should have.”

Miya waves a floppy hand in Sakusa’s direction. “Shaddup. How was I supposed to know ya’d even say yes?”

Sakusa grabs Miya by the collar of his shirt and tugs him upwards, careful to loop a hand around Miya’s waist so he doesn’t send them both tumbling to the ground. “Maybe because you’re _insufferable_ , and you’ve been flirting with me for _years_?”

Miya whistles between his teeth. “So ya did notice. Ya had me wondering, sometimes.”

“You’re not exactly subtle.” Sakusa starts their drunken dance again, heading for the elevators.

“Yeah, but ya still wouldn’t take the hint!”

It says something about Sakusa’s desperation, that all of Miya’s backtalk doesn’t cool any of what Sakusa is feeling for him.

Finally, _finally_ , they make their way down the hall to Sakusa’s room. Being host nation does have some perks, and Sakusa managed to secure himself a solo room when a few extras became available. He wonders if it’s only a coincidence that none of the other players on his team was vying for a single; he wonders if they let him take the one that came up available out of kindness. Sakusa’s cheeks feel warm.

He gets the door open and shoves Miya inside. But Miya has regained some balance, because he teeters forward intentionally, grabbing Sakusa by one shoulder and the back of his neck, pulling him into a messy, wet kiss.

Back in his own space, Sakusa has the presence of mind to reinstate some standards. He shoves Miya backwards onto the extra bed. 

“Stay there,” Sakusa commands. “I need to wash my hands.” 

He retreats to the bathroom to the sound of Miya’s whining, and perhaps doesn’t count exactly to sixty seconds of lathering and rinsing before returning to the bedroom. 

“Hey,” he starts to say, “You should drink some water before we—”

He glances at Miya to find him curled around a pillow, clutching it to him like a stuffed toy. His eyelids are flickering in sleep, his mouth half-open and drool already spotting the pillow case.

Sakusa sits down on one corner of the bed with a huff. “You’re impossible,” he tells Miya.

Miya murmurs something, curling tighter in his sleep. All Sakusa can do is pull a sheet up over him, and pretend that Miya’s soft cheeks and slack expression aren’t as _cute_ as Miya claimed Sakusa was, himself. 

vi. 

Sakusa wakes up to golden sunlight filtering into the room, the sterile smell of his air circulator, and the soft, deep breaths of Miya Atsumu still asleep. Sakusa acts on muscle memory, walking to the bathroom, cleaning himself up, showering and brushing his teeth. Since he’s in his own room, he only pulls on a pair of boxers when he’s done. 

He stands at the end of the bed Miya is occupying, gazing down at him and letting himself indulge without any self-reproach.

Miya is curled into a C-shape, his strong arms still clutching onto one of the dorm’s flat, understuffed pillows. Normally, his hair is perfectly coiffed into a single wave resembling Hokusai’s most famous work. But mussed with sleep, his hair parts into a dozen smaller waves and curls, falling over his forehead. His brows and lashes are a dark contrast to his hair, defining his face in a contrast of shadow and light. His lips are parted softy, his breath coming in and out like the ocean against sand.

He’d fallen asleep before Sakusa could get either of them undressed, and so his National Team t-shirt is a bright spot of red and black against the pale blue sheets. The shirt is pushed up slightly, revealing the barest hint of his abs. Sunlight filters in through the window and cuts a line diagonally across him— highlighting his nose, the curve of one hand, his bare thigh where his shorts have ridden up.

Sakusa doesn’t know how long he stands there. All he knows is that the sun has shifted, and his unconsciously raised one hand to reach for Miya, when—

“Ya sure like staring, dontcha,” Miya murmurs, eyes still closed and lips smacking as he tries to fight the staleness of sleep. “But I gotta wonder, are ya ever gonna _do_ anything, Omi-kun?”

The peace of the moment is shattered, and Sakusa’s face pulls into a scowl. “You still think it’s a good idea to challenge me,” he wonders.

Miya rolls over onto his back, uncaring of the way his shirt scrunches up to reveal his torso as he stretches his arms over his head. He blinks open gold eyes before he lets out a yawn, stretching his legs and curling his toes. “Way I see it, it’s the only way to get ya going.”

All Miya has to do is _exist_ , and he fills Sakusa with so many contradictory and powerful emotions that are nearly impossible to sort through. Underneath all of them is this: the warmth and brightness and softness of waking up to see Miya in the bed next to his, the comfort of watching Miya sleep, and the irresistible urge to _touch_ and _take_ and drink his fill of this insufferable person. 

Sakusa grabs Miya by his shirt collar, hoisting him up and depositing him on his feet beside the bed. 

“Om _i_!” Miya yelps, windmilling his arms for balance and nearly whacking Sakusa in the face. “What’s that for?”

Sakusa pushes him towards the bathroom. “Brush your teeth. Shower. Don’t get dressed, after.”

Miya looks over his shoulder, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Are ya serious?”

Sakusa allows himself a smirk. “Am I ever not?”

Miya pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Well, sure. Other people don’t notice, but I do—”

Sakusa gives him another, more insistent push. “Shut up and get moving or I’m not going to fuck you.”

He’s sure his own face is red, as he says it, but it’s worth watching the blush spread over Miya’s face like ink in water. 

“Sure,” Miya huffs. “Ya talk a big game now, but are you gonna—”

Sakusa pushes him again. “Shut up. Go shower. _Now_.”

He absolutely does not count the minutes, the seconds, once Miya finally makes it to the shower. Normally, Sakusa finds the sound of running water soothing. But now all he can think of is the water running over Miya’s naked body, and there is absolutely nothing calming about that image. 

The bathroom door opens, and there stands Miya in a cloud of steam, with Sakusa’s towel around his hips. Of course, Sakusa doesn’t have an extra in his single room. This fact should bother him, but he doesn’t have enough energy left for thought. 

He crosses the small space between them, grabs Miya’s hands in both of his— they’re warm, wrinkly and pruned from the warm shower. Miya lets out an affronted sound when he’s forced to drop the towel, but Sakusa doesn’t care. He flexes his hands against Miya’s, then presses forward until he can kiss into that terrible, wonderful mouth.

Miya lets out a little sigh against his mouth, pushing up against Sakusa. Sakusa has no choice but to push back, until Miya is pressed between the wall and Sakusa’s body. Now Sakusa can feel every up and down motion of Miya’s abs against his own, every twitch of Miya’s muscles, every little breath that Miya lets out against Sakusa’s lips.

Sakusa presses their hands against the wall on either side of Miya’s head. He pulls back from the kiss, taking in Miya’s shining eyes and reddened lips. He’s never been more grateful for his height, the barest advantage that he has over Miya at this moment. 

“Hey,” Miya says, kicking at Sakusa’s ankles, “Are ya gonna make good on that threat, or…?”

He wants this, Sakusa realizes with a jolt. Maybe he’s always known it— or at least for a long time. But Miya is a challenge, and Sakusa never wanted to be the one to give in first. Does it count as losing, if they both give in at once? Or is it just a victory that benefits the both of them?

“...’m going to find out if there’s any way to get you to stop talking,” Sakusa decides. He tugs Miya forward, then pushes him onto one of the beds. They’re narrow and uncomfortable, but they’re as good as this is going to get. 

Miya leans over the side of the bed and grabs something from near where the towel had fallen. He retrieves a white tube, tossing it towards Sakusa. 

“Do a good enough job, and I’ll make a different kinda noise,” he promises.

Sakusa takes the gel, rolling his eyes. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

Miya winks. “Always am.”

That much is certainly true. But that only pushes Sakusa on, makes him want to wipe all the smugness off of Miya’s face and make him _scream_. 

He coats his fingers with the gel, crawling forward to sit between Miya’s legs. Miya draws his knees up, nodding in encouragement. Sakusa slowly runs his hands down the inside of Miya’s thighs, not caring about the mess of gel left behind. 

“Could ya,” Miya says, biting his lip, “Could ya touch me, and open me up at the same time?”

Sakusa’s brain fizzles at just the mention. He hiccups, then tries to hide the sound in a cough. “Yeah,” he murmurs finally. “Yeah, I can.”

Miya sighs and lets his head fall back. 

Miya’s skin is warm and inviting. Down here, he’s slightly paler than he is on his face and arms, but there’s a golden tinge to his skin that Sakusa finds fascinating. He runs his long fingers down Miya’s half-hard cock, circling Miya’s rim with his other hand. 

“Oh, oh yeah,” Miya sighs. “Don’t be afraid to get a little rougher, either.”

Sakusa huffs. He’ll never be afraid to go hard with Miya— not when Miya’s always pushing him past his own limits. He takes Miya in hand, pressing inside of him at the same time. Miya squirms beneath him, rim tightening around just one of Sakusa’s fingers.

“Hey,” Miya says, voice a rich groan as Sakusa presses inside of him, “Hey, ya got yer freaky wrists, right?”

“They haven’t gone anywhere.” 

Miya breathes out a laugh. “Yeah, but ya think they can reach— y’know—” 

Sakusa knows a challenge from Miya when he hears one, even if Miya’s talking in breathless half-sentences. And he’s not going to back down from this, not when he’s already gotten started.

Sakusa is methodological and meticulous in all things. Even as the sensations— Miya’s warmth, his little intakes of breath, the way he squeezes his legs around Sakusa— come up around him like rising waves, Sakusa still takes his time. He pumps Miya’s cock in his hand, his long fingers wrapping all the way around even as Miya’s cock fills and warms. He presses into him slowly, adding one more finger, then another. 

“C’mon, just a little deeper,” Miya says. He nudges at Sakusa’s back with his heels. “Yeah, further— little more— _ah_.”

Miya lays back with a sigh, still holding Sakusa in the circle of his legs, not letting him move away. “More, more.” 

Sakusa curls his fingers inside of Miya, taking advantage of every improbable angle that he can reach. And Miya— _oh_.

Miya comes apart beautifully. There’s a defiant light in his eyes, but he’s biting down on his lower lip and squirming, and Sakusa is looking down at him and drinking his fill. Sakusa presses into him again, and again, and Miya lets out a little yelp that melts into another sigh. 

“Those hands are wasted on volleyball,” Miya says.

Is triumph the right feeling for this moment? Either way, it’s the glory of victory singing through his veins, filling him with something blazing like ichor. He leans in to press a kiss to Miya’s skin, just under his belly button. 

Miya giggles— not a harsh laugh, not a mocking chuckle. He giggles, kicking at Sakusa’s back.

Sakusa lifts his head, arching a brow.

“Tickles, Omi,” Miya says, covering his face in his hands. 

“You’re never going to drop the nickname, are you,” Sakusa grumbles, even as he tugs more insistently at Miya’s cock.

Miya arches into the pressure, lifting himself up off the bed. “Nope,” he agrees. “Better than _hey you_ , or just ignoring me entirely.”

Sakusa licks his lips. He doesn’t know that he’s ever called Miya directly by his name, and refers to him to others in only the most formal, distanced terms. 

It’s hard to maintain distance with someone when you’re three fingers into them.

“I’m not calling you some stupid nickname,” Sakusa says. He can tell that Miya is getting close, because his breath is coming out shallower and shallower, and he doesn’t respond other than to pout up at Sakusa.

Sakusa leans forward over him, flexibility serving him well when the angle gets awkward. He presses a kiss to Miya’s cheek, biting down on the skin before licking over to the shell of Miya’s ear. 

“But I will ask—” Sakusa kisses Miya’s ear, tugs insistently at his cocks, “Are you going to come for me, _Atsumu_?”

The groan is ripped straight from Miya’s chest. He grabs onto Sakusa, one hand digging into his hair and the other clutching at Sakusa’s shoulder. His toes curl and he arches upwards, and then his cum is adding to the mess between his thighs, the sticking feeling on Sakusa’s hand.

He falls back onto the bed, breathing heavily and laughing. He pulls one arm over his face, red lips visible while his eyes are hidden. “ _Fuck_ , Omi. Omi, say it again. Omi Omi, say my name while ya fuck me, okay?”

Sakusa will never admit to it, but in that moment he’s prepared to do whatever Miya wants. Thankfully, they are of one mind.

He pulls back, runs his hands down Miya’s muscled legs and sighs against the smooth skin. He kisses the skin of Miya’s stomach, doesn’t resist the urge to lick into every dip and rise while Miya clenches and unclenches beneath him.

Miya’s breath comes out in a gurgle, like he’s trying to breath underwater. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, keep that up. Get inside me, I’ll be ready t’go again.”

Sakusa pulls back only to grab the tube of gel, slicking himself up quickly. He’s normally more particular about this, but his self-control is a rapidly-fracturing dam and his desire is threatening to crash through entirely. 

He takes himself in hand. He’s almost painfully hard, willing himself to keep enough control to actually do this right. 

“Hey, Omi,” Miya says. “Is yer dick weird too? Like all _bendy_?”

Sakusa can’t believe he was almost scared of embarrassing himself in front of Miya fucking Atsumu, who may be beautiful and feel better than anything in world, but who will never stop saying stupid shit for as long as lives.

“Find out,” Sakusa grumbles, and then pushes inside. 

Miya is loose from the work of Sakusa’s fingers and from orgasm. He practically purrs as Sakusa pushes into him, though the tremors in his legs reveal the way his body has to work to accommodate Sakusa. 

“You good?” Sakusa bites out. 

Miya lets out another of those gurgling breaths. “Ha— ahh. Yeah, move. Go ahead.”

“Good,” Sakusa says, “Because you’re the one who has to bend.”

Miya barks out a laugh, which turns to a yelp as Sakusa pushes against his thighs, forcing him nearly double as Sakusa finds the right angle, the right balance, the right amount of space to move. 

“Hey, Omi,” Miya says around a groan, as Sakusa prepares to move. 

“Hm?” 

“Say my name again, while ya fuck me.”

Sakusa takes that under advisement. He pushes forward, balls of his feet and knees supporting his weight as he builds up a rhythm. Each thrust into Miya is like surfacing for air, only to be pulled under again. When he remembers to open his eyes, he sees Miya’s glassy expression and red cheeks. He leans in, biting down on Miya’s earlobe. 

“Who knew you’d be so easy, Atsumu,” Sakusa says, voice rough and deep.

Miya shakes beneath him, reaching up to clutch at Sakusa’s shoulders. “What’s easy? I’ve had to work for years to get ya to do this.”

Sakusa just hums, too focused on fucking Miya to keep up with the conversation. Miya is content with this, pressing his face into Sakusa’s neck and leaving bites, kisses and licks along the line of his throat. 

Indulging this far hasn’t given Sakusa any release. His desire is burning brighter and brighter, overwhelming in its power. His cock strains inside of Miya, trying to get so deep inside of him that they will be irrevocably joined. 

There’s no part of this he doesn’t feel in the depths of himself, in his bones and in his blood. Even Miya’s teasing words and kitten licks are carved into Sakusa’s memory. 

“Atsumu,” he murmurs, bottoming out with each thrust. “Atsumu, Atsumu…”

“Omi,” Miya responds, voice a thin, gasping breath. “Omi, keep going. Ah— _Kiyoomi_.”

Sakusa’s grip against Miya is so intense it will surely bruise. Miya is writhing under him, his head turning this way and that. Miya scours lines down Sakusa’s back as he comes for the second time, the slashes of pain just pushing Sakusa himself closer to the edge.

“You’re impossible,” he says. It isn’t a complaint. 

This moment is impossible, this man is impossible— the idea that Sakusa could ever let himself get here is most impossible of all. But here he is, on a thin dorm bed with papery sheets, with Miya Atsumu beneath him and Miya’s cum staining both of their thighs. 

He nudges Miya’s chin up, catches his lips and coils their tongues as he pushes into Miya again, again, again.

Like serving practice— giving each and every moment his all, all for the resounding thud and undeniable satisfaction of an ace.

He smiles against Miya’s mouth, Miya’s who holding onto him and saying “Omiomiomiomi,” in a long, nonsensical refrain. 

“Impossible,” Sakusa says against Miya’s mouth. He feels Miya smile in answer.

He comes like the crest of a wave, his every sense reaching new heights before he comes crashing back down to earth. He collapses against Miya, laying across him like a weighted blanket. He can feel their cum, sticking between their legs and hips. Soon, it will be too disgusting to bear. Soon, he will grab Miya in his arms and push him into the shower stall before joining him, if only to enjoy the taste of his clean skin. 

But for now, he lies motionless, until the soothing sensation of Miya running his fingers through Sakusa’s curls brings him slowly back to awareness.

He lifts his face just enough to look Miya in the eye. His face is a splotchy red, his mouth slack and satisfied. There’s moisture at the corners of his eyes, the tracks of tears tracing diagonal lines from his eyes to his hairline.

Sakusa presses his fingers against the wetness, humming softly. Next time, he thinks. Next time, he’ll make Miya cry for real, and he’ll make sure to watch every single moment. 

“Ya get pretty quiet, after sex,” Miya observes. Or maybe he should be _Atsumu_ now. 

“No, that’s you,” Sakusa says. “You’ve just never heard silence, before.”

Miya pouts at him, but nonetheless pulls Sakusa in for a smacking kiss. “It’s more fun to make noise, don’t ya think?”

Honestly, Sakusa thinks he’d like Miya either way— quiet and intense, loud and distracting. But his words are enough of a tether that Sakusa isn’t at risk of losing himself to this burning desire at any given moment, so perhaps Sakusa should be grateful for them.

“Anyway, yer welcome,” Miya says.

Sakusa looks at him in question.

“Yer dream lay in the Village,” Miya continues. “Better than yer fantasies, right?”

Miya Atsumu is, unfortunately, correct. But Sakusa will never, ever let him know that.

“S’okay,” Miya continues. “Ya don’t have to say it. Especially since yer mine, too.”

Sakusa must be gaping, by this point. Miya is back to smirking, though his features still have the relaxed, loose quality that Sakusa is growing fond of. 

Miya leans in to whisper, “Want to make a list about all the other places we have to get to?”

The first place on Sakusa’s list is the aforementioned shower. Thankfully, Miya is up for the challenge.

**Author's Note:**

> haikyuu!! fandom is my hotel california; i can check out any time i like, but i can never leave.
> 
> also sakusa and atsumu live rent free in my head, bickering constantly, and i wouldn't have it any other way.
> 
> please let me know if you enjoyed!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/newamsterdame)


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